


Will to Meaning,or A Jaunt through History in search of Truth, Purpose, and a Decent Pair of Wing Scissors

by halfpenny



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-15
Updated: 2008-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpenny/pseuds/halfpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set pre-book. </p><p>Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the meaning of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will to Meaning,or A Jaunt through History in search of Truth, Purpose, and a Decent Pair of Wing Scissors

           “So is there any Meaning at all, do you think?” asked Crowley one fine sunny morning in the mid 6th century. He’d been hanging around the smoking ruins of Rome for at least a hundred years now in the vain hope that he could still find a functioning bathhouse. But hot, running water seemed for all intents and purposes to have gone the way of the intricate system of roads, and Crowley for one was cruelly disappointed. Democracy and irrigation structures be blessed, hot baths were the greatest thing on God’s green Earth and Crowley had rather come to depend on them.

“If you’re still searching for meaning in this heap of rubble, I’m afraid you’ll be somewhat disappointed.” Aziraphale, from what Crowley could gather, did not take baths. He remained immaculate no matter his surroundings, shrouding in a faint, glimmering cloud of heavenly light. Poor bugger. Didn’t know what he was missing. Or more specifically, what Crowley was now missing.

“Not meaning. Meaning. Capital ‘M’ Meaning. A Great Purpose to all Life.” Crowley scratched at his scalp, mostly for show as angels and demons did not itch per se.

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable, which was not particularly unusual for the angel. “Naturally. God’s Ineffable Plan and all that. ‘There shall be a world lasting six thousand—’”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. But that’s a plan, isn’t it?” Crowley frowned as the pair rounded yet another ruined corner and past yet another demolished heap of stones. “Just because there’s a plan doesn’t mean it has to Mean anything.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be having this conversation,” said Aziraphale and changed the subject to the possible ways of bringing the light of God to the Visigoths. Crowley, who had witnessed the tribe in battle completely by the force of accident and very bad directions, encouraged him to use an emotional appeal.

“They like that touchy-feely stuff,” he said.

Aziraphale did not speak to him again until the High Middle Ages, and even then the subject didn’t come up again until after the Reformation. Aziraphale was desperately upset by the Protestant movement, having always harbored a weakness for stained glass windows. To cheer the celestial being up, Crowley took him to Persia for lunch. If not stained glass, the Persians could always be counted on for excellent stone reliefs depicting angelic forms, which Crowley argued was certainly better than nothing. They ate pomegranates and sat in the shade of a grove of fig trees at a crossroads. Occasionally, Crowley would unfurl his wings and ask travelers for their souls in exchange for immortality. He did not mention the fact that he could in no way grant immortality. He was up to sixteen souls when Aziraphale brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, daintily picking an aril from his teeth. “And I’m not entirely sure there is any Meaning, but I think there is Purpose.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Not entirely sure about that either. I think to understand Meaning you’d have to know how it’s all going to end.”

“Whew, that’s a tall order.”

“Tell me about it. Way back at the beginning, Zipharestael tried to comprehend it all.”

“Who’s Zipharestael?” asked Crowley. He certainly wasn’t one of the Fallen.

“Exactly,” replied Aziraphale. “His head exploded all over Gabriel, who had himself a massive sulk and wasn’t fit to speak to for…well, that was really before time, but it certainly was a long while.”

Aziraphale forged ahead while Crowley contemplated the splatter factor of an angelic head explosion. “Purpose, on the other hand, means striving toward that Meaning.”

“The unknown Meaing?”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale concluded, triumphant.

Crowley pondered this and then asked, “But if the Meaning’s unknown, then how do you know if the Purpose is worthwhile?”

Aziraphale opened, then shut his mouth. Crowley twisted his head completely around on his shoulder to examine his wings. “Do you think I would look good with my wings styled like the Persian pictures?”

Aziraphale stayed in a funk for the rest of the lunch. Crowley’s pomegranate was the best one he had tasted since the Garden.

Crowley spent the next fifty years looking for wing scissors to trim his wings back into the fashionable Persian sweep, but to no avail. Apparently, humans placed absolutely no value on well-groomed wings. Shameless. For a while, he wasn’t exactly sure how long, Crowley lost track of Aziraphale. It didn’t bother him, not really. After all, the angel was truly, deeply irritating and Crowley was well rid of him. It wasn’t as if he missed the bastard. Demons do not miss anyone or anything, except perhaps at times the music of the spheres. But only on very special occasions. So it was with complete neutrality that Crowley greeted his counterpart when they ran into each other during the student riots in Paris during ’68.

“Aziraphale, old man!” Crowley shouted over the police sirens and clapped the angel hard on the back. Aziraphale dodged a Molotov cocktail and hopped over a pile of shattered glass as Crowley lobbed a brick into a crowd of protesters. “It’s been too long! How’s tricks?”

“Oh, the usual,” cried Aziraphale, shoving a young woman out of the way of a police baton. “Still searching for Meaning? I mean, we’re coming up on six thousand years. If you’re going to figure that out, best do it soon.”

“Nah,” replied Crowley. “I’m too sold on your Purpose. Figure we’ll know soon enough anyways.”

Yellowish clouds of tear gas plumed up a dozen yards away and Crowley laughed, a dry hissing guffaw. “Aziraphale!”

The angel turned. “Yes, Crowley?”

The demon grinned at his friend. “Whatever happens, it’s been one hell of a ride.”

Aziraphale smiled back, serene and still faintly glowing, bless him. “Just wait until the Apocalypse. Then we’ll really see something.”

 

 


End file.
